Against the Odds: An MMA Fighter Work Romance Standalone

1. The Present

The Present

Carla

What do you want?

To anyone else, it would’ve been an easy enough question to answer. People state what they want all the time. They voice it when ordering food; when buying a home; when choosing which college to attend. There are simple choices, like what to wear when getting dressed. There are more serious choices, like cremation versus casket. Telling people what we want is a necessary part of life. It’s how we communicate.

I’d always considered myself someone who knows what she wants.

What do you want for dinner? Tacos.

Where do you want to go to college? Florida State.

How many kids do you want to have? Two.

Will you marry me? Yes.

I’d always communicated what I wanted and I’d always gotten it. Life was simple. Life was good. I was happy.

Two parallel lines on a pregnancy test changed everything.

Those lines shouldn’t have changed a thing though. Did they throw me a curve ball? Of course. Did they make things a little more challenging? Absolutely. Should they have caused my fiancé to break up with me and throw away our future together? I didn’t think so.

Joe and I were high school sweethearts. For four years, we planned what our lives would be like once we graduated. We’d move in together, attend the same college, and get engaged. Then we’d get married and have kids. I had it all written down on a list tacked to the corkboard in our bedroom. A list we’d made together.

After graduation, we moved into an off-campus apartment together and Joe asked me to marry him. Everything was going according to plan. Check, check, check. Our ducks waddled in a row. Getting pregnant mixed up the order of things, but it was still something we’d wanted.

Until we didn’t want the same things anymore.

My nana always said, “You can never truly know someone.” You think you do. You finish his sentences and anticipate his moves, like your favorite movie you’ve watched over and over. Until one day, you’re standing in front of him, looking at him like he’s a stranger. The words flowing from his mouth sound foreign to your ears, a language you can’t seem to decipher no matter how hard you try. The warmth from his touch is no longer a comfort, but sends you crawling out of your skin.

“I want you to get an abortion.”He said it as easily as if he’d ordered a drink at the bar. I’ll have a rum and coke, and the lady will have an abortion.

He told me to choose. It was him or the baby. Making that choice was the hardest decision I’d ever made, but it wasn’t because I didn’t know what I wanted. I knew, even then.

I chose to keep the baby.

Joe broke up with me, so I had to move back home with my parents. As devastated as I was, I knew I had to be strong for the tiny human growing in my belly.

I stopped being strong when I woke up nine weeks later to blood-stained sheets.

Nothing made sense. Nothing was right. No Joe. No baby. All the things I’d ever wanted were gone.

So, when my boss asked me what I wanted this morning, it was no surprise I didn’t have an answer.

It was a normal morning. At least, it was before Joe walked into my office.

I thought it’d be easier after not seeing him for two months. But my heart strains against my chest like it’s physically reaching out for him between the bars of its cage.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. Tall and lean with blond hair and green eyes, I can’t help but think how beautiful Joe’s baby would’ve been.

“I’m fine.”

“Your mom said you haven’t been eating much lately.”

My eyes snap up to his. “You’ve been talking to my mother?”

“When I heard what happened, I wanted to make sure you were all right.”

A laugh escapes me. Here’s a PSA to all the guys out there: When a girl laughs at something that clearly isn’t funny, something’s wrong. There’s no turning back after that. You should probably run.

I roll my chair back and stalk around my desk to stand in front of him. “Why don’t you go ask Brianna how she’s doing?”

He winces. “That’s not fair.”

“Not fair? You of all people don’t get to tell me what’s fair.”

Joe reaches for me, but I back away as if his hand is a disgusting slug. “Come on, Carla. Can’t you find it in your heart to forgive me? I want to work things out.”

My eyeballs almost pop out of my head. “So, now that our baby is dead, you want to work things out?”

Joe’s mouth falls open. I’m not one for outbursts, in private or public. But I’m past caring. I lost more than the baby when I miscarried. Something inside me snapped.

Mr. Andrews, my boss, appears in the doorway. “Miss Evans, is everything okay?”

For the past two months, many people had asked me that very question. I’d always answered with the same forced smile and mechanical response.

Today, I swallow and say, “No. Everything is not okay.”

He turns to Joe and sighs. “Why are you here, Mr. McKinney? What do you want?”

Joe’s beautiful, emerald eyes lock with mine. “I want to work things out. I want to be together again.”

My heart clenches and I scold it. Back in your cell, inmate.

“And what do you want, Miss Evans?”

What do I want?

I feel disoriented. I’m blinking like I’ve been woken up by a bucket of ice water. Flashes of my old life play on a reel in my mind.

I want what I once had.

I want what I lost.

But I can’t go back to the way things were before I’d gotten pregnant. Nothing would be the same ever again. I had a plan then. Now, I’d have to make a new plan—a new life. One without Joe. One tinged with sadness over a baby who never got to be.

What do I want?

For the first time in my life, I don’t know.

Maybe it’s Joe’s unexpected presence. Maybe it’s the lack of food. Maybe it’s the loss of control that sends me spiraling. Regardless of what caused it, I fall down a rabbit hole.

The words form on my tongue before the actual thought does. “I quit.”

A deep crease forms between Mr. Andrews’s eyebrows. “What?”

I lift my chin and square my shoulders. “I quit.” And with that, I spin on my heels and swipe my purse off my desk. I pass the dumbfounded men, leave the office, and walk right out of the building. I pull out of the parking lot and into my parents’ driveway ten minutes later.

Dodging the minefield of sports equipment and action figures, I stomp across the lawn and let myself in the house. When I reach my bedroom, I dump my toiletries and phone charger into the already-packed suitcase at the foot of my bed and zipper it shut. My yoga mat gets rolled up and tucked under my arm. I’m supposed to leave for New York tomorrow, but it looks like I’m getting a head start.

I scribble a quick note to my parents and leave it on the kitchen counter. Decided to leave a day early. I’ll call you along the way. Love you.

Then I’m hoisting my suitcase into the back seat of my 1970 glossy black Camaro and backing out of the driveway.

I don’t stop to think. I don’t stop to call my best friend, Charlotte, who’s the reason I’m driving all the way from Florida to New York in the first place. I don’t even turn on the radio. I don’t do anything except drive.

Thoughts don’t start materializing until about an hour into my trip. This is when I realize I’d left in such a rush, I forgot to pack my flat iron. This is also when I realize I’m still wearing my work clothes: navy pencil skirt, white button-up blouse, and white espadrilles. Not exactly road trip attire.

When I started college last year, I’d gotten a job as an administrative assistant at the campus registrar’s office. Secretarial work is pretty mundane, but Dad was happy to pull some strings with his friend, Mr. Andrews. It was one of the few campus jobs that went through the summer and worked perfectly around my class schedule.

And I’d just quit like an impulsive idiot.

Acid churns in my stomach as I think about how I didn’t think at all. Before today, I was a planner. A thinker. I didn’t make any decisions without thinking through a pros and cons list first. Walking out of my job, I hadn’t thought about it for more than a millisecond. So, why did I do it? I’d walked out of my life as if I’d never return to it.

Maybe I don’t want to.

I turn the radio on to help calm my nerves. Lisa Loeb sings, “Stay,” and I crank it up as high as I can. Though I’m only half sure what the song is about, I belt it out with as much feeling as if I’d lived the lyrics myself. Lisa blends into Alanis, who turns into Stevie, and before I know it, I’m rocking out to Joan Jett.

Hours pass as I cruise up the East Coast. I stop for gas, load up on snacks, and get back on the road.

The farther I get from home, the better I feel. Calmer. Somewhere in North Carolina, I even smile. Dad said I should’ve flown because “it’s a brutal ride.” The flight from Florida to New York would’ve been a short couple of hours, but the idea of a solo road trip was too enticing to pass up. I’d wanted the time to myself to process and think. It felt like a rite of passage. There’s nothing like freedom on the open road.

I guess my smile was a little too smug because the AC in my car picks this exact moment to crap out on me. This is the downside of driving a classic car. I wind down both windows, hoping the cross breeze will suffice in the August heat. The air is thick and sweat seeps into every possible crevice of my body, bringing doubt along with it.

Maybe Dad was right. Maybe this was a dumb idea. Maybe I should turn around.

My knuckles are white on the steering wheel again, so I take another deep breath. “What worries you, masters you.”

As much as I love that quote from John Locke, I doubt he knew what it felt like to leave a flat iron behind in ninety percent humidity.

As if things aren’t bad enough, my phone buzzes in the passenger seat. I groan before answering.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Carla! Are you alright? Where are you?”

“I’m fine. I’m on the way to see Charlotte.”

“I just spoke to Joe. He said you quit your job. What happened?”

“Why are you talking to Joe?”

“He wants to get back with you. Isn’t that a good thing? I thought that’s what you wanted.”

“Why would I want to get back with him after he left me when I was pregnant with his child?”

She sighs as if I’m the exasperating one. “Carla, he made a mistake. He’s young. You both are. He wants to make up for it. Maybe you should think about giving him another chance.”

I bite my tongue so hard I’m surprised I don’t taste blood. “You know what? I’m driving. I shouldn’t be talking on the phone. I’ll text you when I get to Charlotte’s place.”

I end the call and toss my phone onto the seat beside me. My eyes sting and the lines in the road before me blur together. Something must’ve gotten in my eyes. It’s probably dust or pollen. A pebble probably ricocheted inside my car. I signal and pull onto the shoulder as my eyes continue to water.

I’m not a crier. Tears never fix anything, so I don’t see the point. I didn’t even cry when I had the miscarriage. Mom said I was in shock.

Maybe it’s wearing off now, because the girl who just impulsively quit her job is now pulled over somewhere on I-95 crying her eyes out.